October 18th.—For some days, things have gone on very painfully. I do not know what ill wind has brought hither the Prince of Villa Ambrosa, the elegant Prince, who was Elsa's first fancy, her Carnival flame, who wrote to her those beautiful verses, gave those delicious bouquets, and swore to love her eternally. He is a handsome young man, agreeable and musical, a great dancing-master, I believe, but a vast favorite of the Baroness ———, who became acquainted with him last winter in Rome. He now comes here almost every evening, and, though I do not believe in any earnest liking for him in little Elsa's heart, yet she is evidently carried away by the enjoyment of playing her splendid pieces of music, and talking with him. In this state of affairs, the Waldensian grows more and more serious and silent; and when the elegant and lovely girl, after having bestowed upon him, from the piano, a kind, little glance, seems to think no more about his presence, but to go on with her music, he very soon disappears without saying a word. Yesterday he came early. She and I were alone in the drawing-room. She had been suffering from headache, and was playing on a guitar belonging to the Prince, to amuse herself, singing the while a plaintive little canzone. She was going to a party that evening with her aunt, and was already dressed in white muslin, with a spray of light-blue flowers arranged amongst the brown plaits of hair, and falling carelessly on the neck and the shoulders, and with pearl bracelets on her delicate wrists—she looked most charming! He entered, bent down to her and would have kissed her, but she hastily drew
